Taking Flight
by Ekatherina
Summary: A hundred hopes, dreams, and wonders take flight. An Avatar drabble collection. Update: Smellerbee's beginnings
1. beginning

**Taking Flight **

_Taking Flight_ is a collection of one hundred drabbles based off _Avatar: the Last Airbender_, a television show created by Mike DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. _Avatar_ belongs to these two wonderful guys, and certainly not to me. I'm just messing around with the world they created. The drabbles focus only on _Avatar_ in general, and not on a particular pairing/ship, nor a particular character, though there are drabbles within the collection that focus on a pairing or character. All are unrelated unless otherwise specified.

**001. Beginnings **

He had once had a mother who loved him…

* * *

It was difficult for a mother to give up her only child—her only son.

She tried not to be selfish. She tried to think of the world, that she would be giving her son up for the world. That she had birthed a son so important everyone needed him. And she sighed, because she knew that though the whole world needed him, she needed him, too. It was enough to drive any mother mad.

The monk told her that he was an Airbender—that he was more than an Airbender. He was the Avatar. And Aang went with the monks to study, away from his mother. They had known he was the Avatar for some time now, they told her. He was close, but it was necessary that the Avatar have no attachments. It would disrupt the careful balance in his soul. And it seemed to be disrupting the balance in her own.

So she watched from a distance, long brown braid falling down her back simply and neatly, dressed in orange and yellow. The monk talked to her sometimes, Gyatso, his name was. He was a nice man, a calm spirit. And she knew, more than anything else, as much as it pained her, that it was Gyatso that Aang trusted, and not her. To him, she was nothing more than a face in the village.

Each night, she wished him luck, until the night it started to rain and the smell of burning approached from the distance, and there was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, and her son was far, far away, angry and torn, and though he was supposed to save them all, he didn't, and steam hissed in the air and lives ended and another story began, with a prayer for hope Aang never heard.

* * *

Thank you for reading and have a nice day! Constructive criticism is much appreciated!

_Ekatherina_


	2. birth

**Taking Flight **

I don't own _Avatar_. Hard to believe, right? If I did, there would be a lot more description of the characters' pasts, which seems to be what I'm delving into in _Taking Flight_, so I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

**029. Birth**

In the richest household in the Earth Kingdom, a baby is born...

* * *

The whisper travels through the halls like wildfire. The servants know it first. The mistress's maids carry sheets from the room, telling a sweeping girl as they slip down the hall. The girl tells the garden-boy as she dumps the dust outside. The boy whispers it into the ear of a kitchen girl with her hair in three braids. As she climbs up the steps from the kitchen with a tray in hand, she sees for herself the weeping master of the house, and confirms the news to the other giggling kitchen girls, who quickly stop giggling. The cook gasps. The kitchen girl tells it to the gardener, who tells it to the doorman, who tells it to the ostrich-horse-carriage driver, who already knows because he is driving the midwife out. And so the whisper has whispered itself all the way around the household, and the household buzzes with anxiety.

Still, supper goes on quite normally, the kitchen girls (much more subdued than normal) bring trays of food to the master of the house, who sits with his mother, a withered-looking woman, though the girls know that she is fierce. The master's mother sits in silence, her silvery hair pulled up high on her head and ornamented with green and yellow beads, as the master shakes, a picture of nerves and despair. The girls even hear, as they leave, the old woman telling her son to stop shaking and eat his supper. Even in light of recent events, the woman holds herself firmly and with dignity.

The kitchen girl brings a tray of supper up to the lady of the house, and is the first one besides the lady's own maids to see the baby.

It is not very often that the young kitchen girl sees a baby, and this one looks normal enough to her. It is pink, with a round face, sleeping. The lady holds her daughter in her arms, smiling at her despite the whispers. The newborn in swaddled in a green cloth. The kitchen girl steps slowly and silently to the lady's bed stand, placing the tray on top of it as the exhausted lady still looks at her daughter. As the kitchen girl leaves, the lady murmurs a thank you to her, still looking at her daughter.

The kitchen girl slips out of the room and down the hallway, finding her way down to the kitchen. The buzz that greets her is nearly tangible in the air.

"What does she look like?"

"Does she really have fourteen toes?"

"Aiko!" comes a snap.

"What? That's what Jin was sayin—"

"She's got two heads, right?"

"Asa!" comes a growl.

"Who told you th—?"

"She's fat, I think."

"Well, all babies are chubby."

"A betcha she's little and—"

"—she's a baby, stupid. 'Course she's litt—"

"—tiny—"

"Betcha she's ugly!"

"Goro! Don't say things like that!" the cook says. The garden boy looks at his feet, then runs out of the room. The cook sighs, wondering what will become of that boy. "Was the baby alright?" she asks the kitchen girl.

"Yes," she says. "She's just a normal baby."

Ruddy face relieved, the cook nods. "Then no fuss. Finish cleaning up."

The kitchen girls scurry to their places and continue washing dishes.

The kitchen girl who had seen the baby lies down on her mat for the night, listening to the other girls around her fall asleep, one by one, as dreams of the new baby in the house ensnare their thoughts. Each wants to be the girl to take Lady Bei Fong's breakfast up to her the next morning. The kitchen girl lies her head down on the pillow, three braids still in place. She feels sorry for the little baby in the lady's arms, her milky eyes closed, not that it makes any difference. It is always night to the baby, swaddled in green.

As day falls into night, the whisper has traveled so that the whole household knows.

The baby is blind.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is highly appreciated!

I experimented with present-tense in this chapter; I hope you liked it. I really liked writing about Toph, so you can probably expect more drabbles about Toph in the future, hopefully more with her actually in them! I may actually expand on this drabble, who knows?

_Ekatherina _


	3. sunsets

**Taking Flight**

The general thought is that Mike DiMartino and Brian Konietzko own Avatar. As I am neither, Avatar is not mine.

**032. Sunset**

They were sparring partners, lovers, and sometimes even friends. (Ursa/Ozai)

* * *

It had been an arranged marriage. 

She was the daughter of the governor of the Hayate Province, a retired commander. He was the second son of the Fire Lord, somehow always second-best to his tea-loving brother. Their hearts were filled with fire, his burning with hate and hers burning with love. Both burned with passion, but not for each other. They had only met once before their marriage, for him to look over her like some sort of prized komodo rhino. She stood with her head down and her hands folded, dressed in the finest of silks. She was not meek, far from it, but she was intelligent. She knew her place, and she knew it was not to speak out against the man—the prince—that looked at her as if she was a possession.

Then again, she was.

She would belong to him, just as much of a thing as the tapestries and swords lining the walls. She would listen to him. She would be obedient, the perfect wife. Humble, but intelligent behind the eyes. He did not realize this until he reached out to touch her, trying to pull her towards him. She bristled, raising her head to look coldly at him. She would not be handled like a kitchen girl. And, in a flash of freezing gold, he learned this. She would be respected by him, no matter if she was his property or not.

It was a challenge to him.

Several months later, there was a wedding. It was opulent and lavish, taking place in a palace garden. They had imported animals from all around the world; the rarest of true bears from the Earth Kingdom, the most lovely foxcats anyone had ever seen from the stretches of the Fire Nation. Girls with dark skin, dressed in reds that did not suit them, who danced to the tune of the sungi horn. Ozai was a picture of regality, swathed in hues of deep red and gold, and Ursa was a just as glorious. It was the wedding of every girl's dream—luxurious and picturesque, with smiling faces and just the proper amount of tears. She was marrying a prince. An angular-faced prince with deep golden eyes, the apple of every young—and old—woman in the Fire Nation's eye. Not the Crown Prince, but the dark and mysterious son of the Fire Lord. It was any girl's dream—but Ursa's. She did not have a choice, as much as her father pretended, and she did not want to marry the cold-eyed man. But she did. She was young, but she knew her place was by his side, as his wife. And this was their wedding, though there was no love behind it. She did what was expected of her.

Her wedding night was one of obligation. Those that followed were not.

They were obstinate and stubborn, unstoppably combative. Ozai was ruthlessly physical, not caring who he knocked down in his path to victory. Ursa was more careful; she fought half the battle in her head. She was always the strategist; she always had the right ideas. She was strong, but intelligent, and knew Ozai better than he knew himself. She could anticipate his every move, so that the only way he ever won was through brute force. Ursa was gentle, choosing to let him win rather than spark a flame of fury in him. They were man and wife, and this was not how they were expected to act. Ursa was supposed to be obedient. Their marriage was supposed to be one of obligation. Ozai and Ursa were more than man and wife. They were sparring partners, lovers, and sometimes friends.

When she was swollen with a child, he would kiss her when he thought she was asleep.

Zuko was always Ursa's, and Azula was always Ozai's. They pretended not to notice, but Ursa protected her son and Ozai defended his daughter. They both loved their children, in their own way, though Ozai played favorites openly while Ursa tried to mask her fear for her young daughter. They never spoke of it to each other, but they both knew it to be true. Just like they knew, but never openly acknowledged, that they didn't spar in the dead of night when no one was watching or sit together in his study, Ursa writing out treaties and papers for him when the smudges under his eyes grew dark and the brush in his hand slipped. Ozai became more reclusive. Ursa pretended not to care.

They pretended so that it sometimes wouldn't hurt.

She pretended not to notice on the nights he was offered pleasure. He pretended not to notice how she shied away from him. They pretended not to notice how their family collapsed—Lu Ten was lost in the war, and Iroh had given up. They pretended not to notice that Ozai looked after his brother with a sudden hatred and loathing, as if willing Iroh to give up the throne to him. They pretended not to notice that Azula was a prodigy and Zuko was a failure, but he was still the heir. They pretended not to notice that it didn't count for anything, so it wouldn't hurt. Ursa watched her family cave in, and it did hurt. Because they were vulnerable, and Ozai's temper was shorter than ever. They pretended not to notice that they lived in a time of turmoil, that the Fire Nation was not helping the world, that their family was perfect and that nothing bad ever happened. They pretended not to notice the death and killing that crept so close.

He would have killed his son.

The line in the sand had been drawn long ago, and there was no changing that Ursa would protect her son. When the dust settled, Ozai did not care who was killed, as long as it wasn't him. Anyone in his family could fall, and he would not flinch. He might have blinked if it had been her. But he would not have batted an eyelash for the life of his son. Zuko was disposable; a failure to the family name. He was not particularly smart, or particularly talented. His mother was. His mother thought of a plan, to save her son and give power to her husband. With a heavy heart, she said farewell to her son, even if she didn't know he was listening. Ozai was waiting in the hall. His cold eyes met hers, and for the first time in a very long time, turned warm. He touched his fingertips to hers and nodded, like he had long ago, in approval. There would be a death tonight, but it would not be his son's. He would settle for that. He trusted Ursa.

She had always been good with a knife.

* * *

Thank you for reading.

**I also take requests for drabbles/oneshots; anything you like, within reason**.


	4. mirror mirror

**Taking Flight**

Mike DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko aren't (often) called Katya. So, it can be generally assumed that I am, indeed, neither.

**"beauty" (from avatarcontest)**

She had _heard_ that she was beautiful, but none of it made sense. (Toph)

* * *

When she was a child (not so very long ago), she would stare at the mirror, trying to make it share its secrets. She knew it reflected her image, but she didn't quite understand what that was, and probably never would. The mirror was not a particularly pleasant thing, and it preferred to keep silent. She would touch the glass and try to _feel_ her face in it, scratching at it with her nails until her fingers bled and a maid would come and drag her away.

_What do I look like?_ she would ask as she screamed, and the maid would try to think of ways to answer that.

_You're very beautiful, _she would reply, and the girl in her arms would only scream louder, because she didn't understand, and wriggle until the maid dropped her. She had _heard_ she was beautiful, that she was pretty, that she had the loveliest moonlight skin and midnight hair and jade eyes. But it didn't make sense

It is not until years later (when she is an adult, but not quite) that someone else would call her beautiful. But they wouldn't use the same words. Instead, they'd explain it in a way she would understand. _Your voice is all over the place. Sometimes it's really nice and sweet but sometimes I think you're going to bite my head off. Your hands are rough and calloused, but in a good way, a way that means you've been there and done that. You smell like the earth, fresh and simple. And you stand like you know you're beautiful, with your feet firmly planted on the ground. You're beautiful in the way the earth is beautiful, with strength and sturdiness and change and growth._

_  
_And she would close her eyes and almost picture herself and realize that it wasn't always something to see.

Thank you for taking time to read this.

**I also take requests; if you want something written, drop me a line. I'd be happy to write. **


	5. paper cranes

**Taking Flight**

Mike and Bryan own it, I'm just dabbling, though this is more canon than my usual stuff.

**"dare you to move" **from sno-wing on LiveJournal (for atlasummerswap).

The whole world was depending on him, but he depended on her. (Kataang)

* * *

The whole world was depending on him, but he depended on her. For the times when he was not the Avatar, not the strong hero ready to save the world. When he was just Aang, who wasn't quite sure what he was doing and needed _someone_ to rely on, instead of having everyone rely on him. She was always there with a strong embrace, a warm touch, and a comforting gaze.

And he loved her for it.

_But how much?_ he would ask himself. _Enough to give up my chance of saving the whole world?_

The answer was a hesitant _yes_, because what was the world without her? He knew it was selfish, and he knew it wasn't right, but he couldn't give her up. She was his cover, and without her, he would disappear into the storm. She was his rock, and without her, he would crumble. She was his wall, and without her, he would be consumed by fire. She was his weight, and without her, he would be blown away by the wind. And what Guru Pathik and Avatar Roku and _everyone_ didn't understand was that without her, he wouldn't be able to do anything at all. Who was supposed to coax him out of the Avatar state when he was ready to destroy everything in his path? Who would remind him that love and good could still exist in a world on fire? Who would take his hand and reassure him that he _wasn't_ just a twelve-year-old kid, but the Avatar, who had the wisdom of the ages behind him?

_No one_, he would answer himself.

Even still, he doubted his own thoughts, his own looks inside himself. But he could only come up with one answer: he needed her. More than anything else in the world, he needed to have her behind him. He loved her, but more than anything, she was his friend, despite everything. She had been, from the moment she found him in the iceberg to the moment they were about to invade the Fire Nation at the eclipse.

The truth was that he was so terribly frightened that he wouldn't come back, and that he wouldn't have a way to thank her.

And that's why he kissed her.

Halfway through leaning towards her, he was taking a chance. He wasn't sure how she would react—brush him off, tell him he was too young and had to think of other things? Or would she fall into his arms and whisper that she loved him? As he felt her breath on him and his heart was beating as fast as the comet was approaching, he was scared. Scared that they were going to invade the Fire Nation in a moment's time, scared that she didn't feel the same way he did, and scared that he wouldn't be able to save the world because of it.

When his lips touched hers, he was daring her to move. Daring her to tell him she loved him too.

When she pressed back against him, she was meeting his challenge.

He didn't know the first thing about love except _this was it_. This feeling that started deep in his heart and crept out through every action he made, every word he spoke, that caught in his throat and never let him give her up, despite the consequences, because he knew if _this_ was gone, he would be too. If _this_ was gone, there was nothing left in the world to fight for. If love was gone, he was losing his connection to his past and his future, and breaking all of his ties to the earth.

Because this, this _love_, was what made him have the wisdom of the ages behind him, and it made him understand how precious the earth was, and how important the people on it were. This _love_ was what kept him from running away again, even though he was scared. He realized, in the moment they where the world went away and the winds blew gently and the ocean calmed, that this was why he was fighting. He didn't need to give Katara up to save the world. He needed to keep her, just like this, in the perfect moment, the calm before the storm, to save the world.

And knowing this gave him the strength he needed to soar.

* * *

Thank you for taking time out of your own life to read this.

Note: I don't ship Kataang, and I probably never will. But this was for a request, so I wrote it.

**Which leads into the fact that I take requests if you would like one. **


	6. masquerade

**Taking Flight**

I've met Mike and Bryan. They're very nice people, and aren't me.

No prompt used for this one.

**Rated T**

It's safer to be a boy, anyway. (Smellerbee's beginnings)

* * *

In the distance, a woman screams and a man moans.

-x-

"It's best not to be a girl right now," she whispers. "It's best…" she says, as she listens for the heavy footsteps of the Fire Nation soldiers."To be something you're not and be safe."

She places a thin, soft hand on a chestnut head, twirling the long hair between her fingers. She pushes a band of white cloth and loose, too-big clothing into her hands.

From her sash, she hands her sister a knife.

-x-

The man, she realizes later, was kind. Slashes on her face, but nothing more. There was compassion, twisted behind fear and hate, but it was still there. Because perhaps he needed to prove himself, but perhaps he had a daughter, just like her, at home.

-x-

She is curled up in a tiny ball when Longshot finds her, jagged knife still in hand. He approaches carefully, cautiously. Silently.

"Please," she begs. "Please, don't hurt me…"

He looks carefully into her eyes. He doesn't smile, and he doesn't relax his harsh look, but he knows she understands. Longshot kneels down and touches her shoulder tentatively, pushing away the hair crusted with blood.

She whimpers. She knows what a man can do to a woman. (Though he's not a man yet, and she certainly doesn't consider herself a woman.)

Despite this, she clings to him when he lifts her into his arms.

-x-

She _needs_ to tell someone. She's never been one to keep things inside of her. So she tells Longshot of the painted faces of her sisters and their shimmering silk clothing and how despite how happy they seemed, they never wanted her to be like them. She tells him of her mother's laugh and her father's supporting hands and how the Fire Nation men came to their village and burned everything in their path.

-x-

She loses consciousness while they are walking, but he doesn't tire, even with her dead weight in his arms.

He knows what she's feeling.

-x-

The only people still alive that have seen her with her hair long are Longshot and Jet. It's caked with blood and dirt and hardly looks like the hair her sister ran her fingers through, but it's grown out. With it, she looks like the scared little girl she really is.

So she grabs the knife—her sister's knife, _her_ knife—out of Longshot's hands and does what her sister told her to.

It's safer to be a boy, anyway.

-x-

Longshot thinks it's good that she doesn't remember. That way, she doesn't remember the pain and the grief. She doesn't remember what happened to her sisters and her village. All that's left are small, distant memories of flame and screams. And when she pushes these things away, all that's left is anger. And that's what they need to do what they do.

She doesn't remember the warm smiles of her older sisters or the tinkling bell-like laugh of her mother or the rough, calloused hands of her father or the round, pouting face with bright eyes and curly hair of a girl she used to know and may have been friends with.

But she couldn't be friends with her now. That girl was perfect and untouched by war and pain.

She isn't.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading this!

**I take requests if you'd like one. Drop me a line. **


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